To Swear an Oath
by twilightjunkie1313
Summary: Her soul is tactically and logistically significant to winning this war that they have started. Which is why he needs her to keep fighting... and why he needs her to promise she will not fail. Death the Kidd/Maka. R&R.


To Swear an Oath.

(SOUL EATER)

Author Note: I do not own.

…

…

The young reaper didn't look over his shoulder as the scythe technician tugged open a heavy wood and iron door that lead to the highest balcony in the academy. The young reaper's soul perception was still thrown wide open, a remnant of the battle they had just lost.

He knows there are so many words that need saying between himself and the determined, perfectionist scythe technician. He has avoided those words and their ramifications. Avoided them well, too.

The thin scythe technician leaning on the stone railing to his left looks nothing like the girl he knows. Her eyes are dull, the white gloves she wears are speckled with blood and smudged with dirt, her jacket hangs limply off of her frame and the bottom half of her boots are coated in drying mud. The bruising that is just beginning to appear across her legs and the slight cut on her right temple make the young reaper wince to himself.

He does not want to add to her burdens, not when she is so visibly a less-than-perfect version of herself. The loss of the battle is still numbing her, throwing her into a state of hyper-aware shock. Sleep deprivation is written in the purpled skin under her eyes and for a selfish moment, the young reaper wonders what he must look like.

He hears her murmur something about the view and he forces a response that sounds a tone too cold. The scythe technician nods once and then settles back to watching the sky over Death City. The young reaper inhales once.

"Maka."

It kills him when he feels her soul try to focus itself as she fixes her eyes on his.

"I need to talk to you about Soul."

She is battle worn and dirty but composes herself into a semblance of grace. The young reaper grimaces.

"He will be a Death Scythe soon enough, by tradition he should be placed under the service of my father."

Her face is set into an even expression.

"I know that."

He doesn't expect the worn bitter reproachful tone in her voice.

"-But you are hardly ready for it."

His voice is harsh around the edges, the words an icy steel.

The young reaper is unapologetic as the scythe technician inhales a slow breath. He notices her clench her hands once before spreading her fingers wide and settling her palms back on the railing.

"I have requested that Soul become my Death Scythe."

She is quiet.

"My father has approved -"

The reaper stops mid-sentence. His brain scrambling to catch up to the pace of their minimalist conversation.

The scythe technician was staring at the railing, the look on her face a smattering of emotions that matched the whirling chaotic state of her soul.

"Why?"

Her voice is stable as she speaks.

"Tell me why."

The scythe technician has fixed her eyes on the young reaper, waiting.

"I need a Death Scythe."

"You have -!"

He holds up a single pale index finger and she falls impatiently quiet.

"I have Elizabeth and Patricia, but neither of them will be ready soon."

The scythe technician nods a fraction of an inch.

The young reaper notices her shift, her hands flexing again and her weight switching between her left hip and her right before she settles back into perfect stillness.

"You can't wield him."

Her tone was blank and possessive at the same time.

"I am aware of that."

Her brows furrow together and she spins to lean her back against the railing. Her eyes bore a hole into the door she came through. It is obvious that she working through the words he has just thrown between them.

He waits. When her gaze returns to him it is even and brutally unreadable.

"You don't want Soul to report to your father."

"No, I don't."

The young reaper can see the gears cycle and clatter through the scythe technician's mind. He expected no less of her.

"So you want him because he will be qualified for the position and because you don't want your father to have him."

"Correct."

Her fingers knit together for a short time and then twist apart, he understands. He can see the way her soul is struggling to stay focused on this conversation while she quiets the feedback from her soul perception and fights off the need to sleep.

"Why do you need him? You could use any current Death Scythe and they would follow your instruction just the same."

He feels confusion but no trace of anger in her words.

The young reaper blinks slowly, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before he fixes his stare out over Death City. She spins back to face outward and the reaper notes that the action is with the same sharpened gracefulness as her stances in battle.

"We lost."

He doesn't need to specify, the scythe technician is perfectly aware that he is referencing the events of a few hours prior.

"In doing so we began a war."

She stares out at the edge of Death City, still and quiet.

"I may not be the tactician that your weapon is, but I am hardly inept enough to misuse valuable advantages."

She arches an eyebrow.

He has thrown her, he knows, with the comparison of himself to her weapon. If he had the time he would explain, in a level of detail that only she would appreciate, in which ways Soul Evans is better than himself.

However, he lacks time.

"I may end up inheriting my father's war."

The young reaper notices her inhale a little too quickly, the slight roll of her shoulders as she shuffled her weight again and continued to stare blankly at the shadows and lines of Death City. Her soul was screaming its unease to his soul perception.

"We need you and Soul if we want a chance at winning."

"Me and Soul -?"

"Both of you together. He cannot work alone and it is rare that technicians choose to stay in the field weaponless."

He doesn't say that he would not let her go into the field weaponless, that he cannot bring himself to order her to stay on the front line of a war that will see to the deaths of so many.

"But -"

"Soul is a strong weapon already, there is no question of that."

"Then…?"

She is fixing a dull stare at the stone rail and the backs of her white-red gloves.

"I happen to know, as you do, that he works best with a technician."

"There are capable technicians."

She was playing devil's advocate now.

"None with Grigori souls."

He catches her hesitate.

"You want me for my soul?"

"You are tactically and logistically significant to this war."

The young reaper inhales and looks away from the scythe technician, the illusion of giving her space. In reality, both of them are functioning in the fragile-frayed-rope last strands of sanity, soul perception still reaching far enough to sense everyone in the city.

Inhale. Exhale. The young reaper still has something to say, an oath he wants the scythe tech to swear. He does not want to ask this thing of her. She has already proven her loyalty in lost childhood and stitches, the same as every other student he has fought beside.

She is waiting, bracing for whatever he hasn't yet told her, the young reaper winces internally. She knows there is more to be said, she can feel it on his soul. He blinks once and gathers himself into calm.

"Maka."

He is asking.

"Kidd."

She looks at him with ice in her eyes and a focus that feels white-hot in her chaotic soul.

"I read a book in a library a while back, while we had a two day layover in London."

The reaper presses his mouth closed.

"It was about the military of the United States, there was something really odd about finding a book about the states over in Europe… so I paged through it."

His soul is tinted with enough confusion and interest for her to pick up on, despite the calm assembly of his exterior. He wonders if this is the appropriate time to tell a story about a book. Then he wonders about the sanity of the technician in front of him. If she had lost her mind… he would need to re-examine the odds on winning against an angry, power-hungry army of magically destructive, potentially insane witches.

He grimaced just a fraction.

"They had some really neat information about the different branches, but what struck me most was the motto of the Marine Corps."

The technician's face is even, her voice nearly monotone. Kidd makes the connection at the same moment she says two words.

"Semper Fidelis."

He knows the translation of the words in any language that has ever been written or spoken thanks to his Shinigami birthright. He fixates on the English version, a smile tugging one side of his mouth upwards as the scythe technician pushes away from the stone railing. She is moving toward the door when he turns suddenly and murmurs a thank you.

She nods, the motion nearly a slight bow as she opens the door. There is a slight pause between them, the door propped open by the scythe technician's blood spotted glove.

"Thank you."

Her words puzzle him for a moment and his face falls out of order. He does not understand what she could possibly thank him for. Sending her to a likely death in battle? Hardly.

She catches his confusion and drums her fingers against the door once before offering explanation.

"For Soul."

She is out the door a moment later, he feels her soul center itself a fraction more as she strides down the hall.


End file.
